Dylan had never seen before. As he gazed at the trio, the ceremony came to an end and, after signing the register, the bride and groom proceeded down the aisle, followed eventually by the assembled wedding guests.
The three musicians struck up again. To Dylan’s ears, the unique sound of the strange instrument, whatever it was, soared high above the other two. The music was loud, like a battle march or something, and it made him smile, the first smile he had managed since his arrival in Ireland, or indeed in several months. As he listened entranced, he suddenly realised that, unawares, he had been making his way up the side aisle of church as the wedding guests filtered out. He caught the eye of the man playing the strange instrument. The man smiled at him and Dylan smiled back.
The crowd were now almost out of the church, chatting and taking photos of the happy couple. When the music stopped, the band members began talking and joking.
Impulsively, Dylan approached them.
‘Howareya?’ the man with the strange instrument said.
Dylan didn’t know what that meant, maybe the guy was speaking Gaelic, so he replied, ‘Hi, em, what is that thing you were playing?’
‘Pipes,’ the man replied, seemingly unfazed by Dylan’s appearance, ‘the uilleann pipes. They’re an old Irish instrument, a bit like the Scottish bagpipes, but you don’t blow into them with your mouth. Would you like to have a look?’
‘Sure, I mean yes please. I’ve never seen anything like them before.’
It seemed to Dylan that this thing wasn’t just a single instrument as such; it had various different parts. The man had a leather strap around his waist and another around his arm. A third piece went under his arm. He was intrigued: it looked like one of those things people used to blow air into fires in old movies, to get them going. The fourth piece consisted of a bag covered in green velvet with yellow trim, which the man placed under his left other arm; it expanded when he squeezed the bag-like thing under his right arm. Across one leg lay a series of wooden pipes with keys attached somehow to the rest of this instrument, which the man seemed to be constantly adjusting. In his hands, he held another pipe, a bit like a flute. It was the most complicated instrument Dylan had ever seen.
‘This is a love song,’ the man said, ‘it’s about three hundred years old, written by a very famous Irish composer called Turlough O’Carolan. It’s called ‘Bridget Cruise’.’
The sound that emerged completely transfixed Dylan. It was slow and plaintive, and transported him to another place, where only he and this mesmeric sound existed. A surfeit of images crowded his imagination – glens, mist and an ethereal woman – a girl with long dark hair, sitting alone on a rock. When the music ended, Dylan couldn’t speak.
‘So where are you from?’ the man asked.
‘Em… America, I’m here on vacation. I…em... thanks for playing that for me. It’s really awesome. Did it take you long to learn to play like that? I mean how do you learn that? It seems really complicated.’
‘Well …What’s your name?’ ‘Dylan Holbrook.’
‘Well Dylan, my name’s Diarmuid. I’ve been playing now for about thirty-four or thirty-five years. I learned from my brother to start with I suppose, and when I got a bit better, I went to a pipe master who taught me. I suppose though you never stop learning. Do you play an instrument yourself?’
‘Kind of,’ Dylan felt so intimidated by the skill of this musician that he felt stupid talking about his own efforts at electric guitar.
‘I play a bit of guitar with some friends back home, but I’m just a beginner, so I’m not that good yet.’
‘Would you like to have a go at these?’ Diarmuid asked. ‘But I must warn you most people can’t even get a sound of them at the start’ he added with a smile.
‘Can I?’ Dylan asked in amazement, unable to believe that this stranger would be so
The three musicians struck up again. To Dylan’s ears, the unique sound of the strange instrument, whatever it was, soared high above the other two. The music was loud, like a battle march or something, and it made him smile, the first smile he had managed since his arrival in Ireland, or indeed in several months. As he listened entranced, he suddenly realised that, unawares, he had been making his way up the side aisle of church as the wedding guests filtered out. He caught the eye of the man playing the strange instrument. The man smiled at him and Dylan smiled back.
The crowd were now almost out of the church, chatting and taking photos of the happy couple. When the music stopped, the band members began talking and joking.
Impulsively, Dylan approached them.
‘Howareya?’ the man with the strange instrument said.
Dylan didn’t know what that meant, maybe the guy was speaking Gaelic, so he replied, ‘Hi, em, what is that thing you were playing?’
‘Pipes,’ the man replied, seemingly unfazed by Dylan’s appearance, ‘the uilleann pipes. They’re an old Irish instrument, a bit like the Scottish bagpipes, but you don’t blow into them with your mouth. Would you like to have a look?’
‘Sure, I mean yes please. I’ve never seen anything like them before.’
It seemed to Dylan that this thing wasn’t just a single instrument as such; it had various different parts. The man had a leather strap around his waist and another around his arm. A third piece went under his arm. He was intrigued: it looked like one of those things people used to blow air into fires in old movies, to get them going. The fourth piece consisted of a bag covered in green velvet with yellow trim, which the man placed under his left other arm; it expanded when he squeezed the bag-like thing under his right arm. Across one leg lay a series of wooden pipes with keys attached somehow to the rest of this instrument, which the man seemed to be constantly adjusting. In his hands, he held another pipe, a bit like a flute. It was the most complicated instrument Dylan had ever seen.
‘This is a love song,’ the man said, ‘it’s about three hundred years old, written by a very famous Irish composer called Turlough O’Carolan. It’s called ‘Bridget Cruise’.’
The sound that emerged completely transfixed Dylan. It was slow and plaintive, and transported him to another place, where only he and this mesmeric sound existed. A surfeit of images crowded his imagination – glens, mist and an ethereal woman – a girl with long dark hair, sitting alone on a rock. When the music ended, Dylan couldn’t speak.
‘So where are you from?’ the man asked.
‘Em… America, I’m here on vacation. I…em... thanks for playing that for me. It’s really awesome. Did it take you long to learn to play like that? I mean how do you learn that? It seems really complicated.’
‘Well …What’s your name?’ ‘Dylan Holbrook.’
‘Well Dylan, my name’s Diarmuid. I’ve been playing now for about thirty-four or thirty-five years. I learned from my brother to start with I suppose, and when I got a bit better, I went to a pipe master who taught me. I suppose though you never stop learning. Do you play an instrument yourself?’
‘Kind of,’ Dylan felt so intimidated by the skill of this musician that he felt stupid talking about his own efforts at electric guitar.
‘I play a bit of guitar with some friends back home, but I’m just a beginner, so I’m not that good yet.’
‘Would you like to have a go at these?’ Diarmuid asked. ‘But I must warn you most people can’t even get a sound of them at the start’ he added with a smile.
‘Can I?’ Dylan asked in amazement, unable to believe that this stranger would be so
Similar Books
